The Mediterranean Cat

#3

The rainbow rises from the churning bay,
Colors cleaving into sea bass and mullet
Flung down upon the cat man's plate.
Bread, a lemon and a pale rose'
Will soon course down his gullet.
(The monstrous boiled lobster can wait.)
Is it only food that cheers him? Triumphant,
That grin, rapacious and tense,
Could rival the glower of an elephant
For anthropomorphic confidence.
And what of the little girl in her canoe
Waving goodbye, or is it hello?
She doesn't smile. She hasn't a clue
How to ride that storm-born rainbow.

The Art of Painting

The Art of Painting (Johannes Vermeer) Sonnet #1

He draws aside the brocaded curtain

As if to reveal an intimacy

Tantamount to an indiscretion,

Though it is just to allow us to see

A portrait painter paused at his easel,

And his model, a young woman demure

Beyond conceiving, who, a tease, will

Smile, eyes closed, supremely sure

The man has never seen a lovelier.

Perhaps the painter never has either,

And though he has a warm affection

For searing late afternoon sunlight,

For stillness rendered into perfection,

It is all a blind for sexual delight.

Ornament

And tomorrow is Christmas,

the heart’s havoc with delight.

Downstairs, the unnatural tree

dressed in glass and light,

pulses with memories.

Will my daughters see the ornament?

Will they see, as I saw,

watching for hours once,

the orb darkened by green-tinseled boughs

radiating needles,

crystal spark moon beam

still and silent as time itself?

Will they see the heart

that moved two hands to place it there?